'I don't know. He's drunk an awful lot.'
'I thought he was off the stuff!'
'I think,' said Mr Cheese cautiously, 'that this is not the case any more.'
A scene, somewhere near Quarry Lane: 'Where we going?'
'I'm going to get someone to have a look at you.'
'Not dwarf doctor!'
'There must be someone up here who knows how to slap some quick-drying cement on you, or whatever you do. Should you be oozing like that?'
'Dunno. Never oozed before. Where we?'
'Dunno. Never been down here before.'
The area was on the windward side of the cattle yards and the slaughterhouse district. That meant it was shunned as living space by everyone except trolls, to whom the organic odours were about as relevant and noticeable as the smell of granite would be to humans. The old joke went: the trolls live next to the cattleyard? What about the stench? Oh, the cattle don't mind . . .
Which was daft. Trolls didn't smell, except to other trolls.
There was a slabby look about the buildings here. They had been built for humans but adapted by trolls, which broadly had meant kicking the doorways wider and blocking up the windows. It was still daylight. There weren't any trolls visible.
'Ugh,' said Detritus.
'Come on, big man,' said Cuddy, pushing Detritus along like a tug pushes a tanker.
'Lance-Constable Cuddy?'
'Yes.'
'You a dwarf. This is Quarry Lane. You found here, you in deep trouble.'
'We're city guards.'
'Chrysoprase, he not give a coprolith about that stuff.'
Cuddy looked around.
'What do you people use for doctors, anyway?'
A troll face appeared in a doorway. And another. And another.
What Cuddy had thought was a pile of rubble turned out to be a troll.
There were, suddenly, trolls everywhere.
I'm a guard, thought Cuddy. That's what Sergeant Colon said. Stop being a dwarf and start being a Watchman. That's what I am. Not a dwarf. A Watchman. They gave me a badge, shaped like a shield. City Watch, that's me. I carry a badge.
I wish it was a lot bigger.
Vimes was sitting quietly at a table in the corner of The Bucket. There were some pieces of paper and a handful of metal objects in front of him, but he was staring at his fist. It was lying on the table, clenched so tight the knuckles were white.
'Captain Vimes?' said Carrot, waving a hand in front of his eyes. There was no response.
'How much has he had?'
'Two nips of whiskey, that's all.'